The Dark Earl

by Virginia Henley

  “Undress me and make love to me,” she gasped.

  Thomas brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek and shook his head. “No, Harry. I won’t make love to you until you are my wife.”

  “Why not?” she cried.

  “Because there will be pain.”

  “I don’t care!” she cried passionately, thumping his chest with her fist. “I won’t agree to marry you until I have irrefutable proof that you love me.”

  “How can giving you pain prove that I love you? You are being willful, Harry.”

  Her anger flared and she tried to sit up, but Thomas wouldn’t allow it. “You dominant devil! You need to be in control—that’s why you won’t make love to me.”

  “Say you’ll marry me.”

  “No!”

  Her shout startled the wildfowl into taking wing.

  “You’ve frightened the ducks off the pond, you tattooed little wanton.”

  The amusement in his eyes caused her anger to melt away, and she began to laugh.

  “Marry me.”

  “Perhaps.” Green eyes looked into silver. “But first I want proof that you love me.”

  “Why the hellfire would I saddle myself with an outrageous baggage who flies in the face of all my principles if I didn’t love you?”

  Harry gave him back his own words: “Perhaps because I am the daughter of wealthy nobility . . . and I am the most attractive, maddening female in London.”

  “And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s because I love you.”

  Harry shook her head thoughtfully. “It may not be love. The attraction between us may be the challenge we symbolize to each other. You want to tame me . . . and I want to make you wild!”

  “You once told me that if I laid a finger on you, Abercorn would have me thrashed within an inch of my miserable life.” Thomas covered her breasts and retied the ribbon on her chemise. Then he buttoned the bodice of her riding dress. He donned his jacket and held out his hand. “We are at an impasse.”

  She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. Her eyes sparkled with audacity.

  “A duke’s daughter trumps an earl’s son any day of the year.”

  “I am about to make another declaration. You will marry me, Lady Harriet.”

  Thomas held out his mother’s chair before the pair sat down for dinner together for the first time since he had returned from Staffordshire.

  Barbara Anson glanced anxiously at her son and then confessed, “Before you returned, I was sorely tempted to give your father an overdose of laudanum.”

  Thomas almost choked on his soup. “For God’s sake, don’t do that, Mother. He can’t live much longer, so don’t blacken your immortal soul over him.”

  Barbara gave a mirthless laugh. “After being married to him for so many years, I have stopped believing that we have souls. In any case, if there is such a thing as a loving God, he would give me absolution for ridding the world of such vermin.”

  Thomas hadn’t wanted to tell his mother of his father’s vilest threats, but it was obvious he must now reveal at least a half-truth. “Father has signed an affidavit to disinherit me unless I marry an heiress before he dies. If and when I comply, Fowler has instructions to burn the affidavit.”

  “Surely it wouldn’t hold up legally?”

  “Attorneys know all sorts of devious methods to make things legal.” He tried for a lighter note. “So please don’t bump him off until I’m wed.”

  “Do you have someone in mind, Thomas?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I am paying court to Lady Harriet Hamilton, the eldest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Abercorn.”

  His mother’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are reaching high, Thomas.”

  “I will inherit no wealth. I must wed an heiress for the upkeep of Shugborough.”

  “Do you and Lady Harriet love each other, Thomas?”

  Love means different things to different people. We both love Shugborough. “There is certainly a mutual physical attraction.”

  “Have you asked her to marry you?”

  “I asked her this morning.” He saw hope dawn in his mother’s dark eyes. “She said perhaps. She is hesitant, but I have no doubt that I will be able to persuade her to marry me. The question is, will I be able to do so in the short amount of time that I have?”

  “Welcome to Hampden House, Lady Buccleuch.” The Duchess of Abercorn smiled warmly and gave her hand to Charlotte’s husband, Walter.

  “Louisa, please call me Charlotte.” She gestured toward the window. “You are directly across from Hyde Park. . . . How very convenient.”

  Harry and Jane curtsied to the duchess, and then they flanked Will and led him into the drawing room. Though he was enamored with Harriet, he was far too polite to show favoritism in front of her young sister Jane.

  “I take it you visited your constituents in Midlothian,” Harry said. “August is usually a glorious month in Scotland.”

  “The weather was good. I’m sorry your family didn’t get to visit Scotland this year.”

  “No, we went to Ireland, which I love and adore. Jane is the one who missed Scotland the most, I believe.” Harry gave her sister a speaking glance. I’ll do my very best to make you irresistible in Will’s eyes.

  Jane finally found her tongue. “Did you stay at Dalkeith Palace?”

  “I did indeed, for the most part.”

  “Does it make you feel like a prince to live in a palace?” Jane asked ingenuously.

  His eyes lit with amusement. “Scottish princes didn’t fare too well in history.”

  “Well, certainly Macbeth didn’t,” Harry teased.

  Young Hamilton joined them. “Hello, Will. Been to Hazard House lately?”

  “That is not a fit subject for mixed company,” Harry admonished.

  “Just because you’ve sworn off gambling doesn’t mean the rest of us are going to sit in the corner and eat pickled Bibles.”

  “Actually, James, your sister has a point. The gaming house has an unsavory reputation. I’d stay clear if I were you.”

  “Oh well, I’m off to Oxford shortly. Just thought I might have one last fling before I’m submerged in academia.”

  “James, when you get there, start up a petition that they accept women scholars,” Harry suggested.

  “If I start a petition for females, it won’t be for scholars,” he jested.

  Harry glanced at Will. “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He’s just discovered the opposite sex, and is rather obsessed at the moment.”

  When dinner was announced, Abercorn partnered Charlotte Montagu and led the way into the dining room. Louisa threaded her arm through Walter Montagu’s and followed. Will, ever gallant, offered his arms to both Harriet and Jane and the trio went in to dinner, with James bringing up the rear.

  When Harry saw that her mother had placed Will between her and her brother, she quickly moved the place cards so that he would be seated between her and Jane. The grateful look her sister gave her told Harry that she was the happiest person in the room.

  The dinner conversation ran the gamut from Ireland to Scotland, from weddings to funerals, from politics to war, and finally to horses and racing. When the guests moved into the drawing room for after-dinner drinks, the conversation moved on to the royal family, then to art, literature, and finally opera.

  “I’m taking Louisa to the ballet on Saturday. Marie Taglioni is performing La Sylphide,” Abercorn declared.

  “I always think the male dancers’ costumes rather risqué,” Charlotte Montagu said repressively. “Didn’t you used to dance, Your Grace?”

  “She still does,” Abercorn said before Lady Lu eviscerated their guest with a rapierlike riposte. “When we were married, I had a stage built for her at Barons Court, Ireland.”

  “How extraordinary,” Charlotte murmured. “Do you dance, Lady Harriet?”

  “Only in the ballroom, Your Grace. My dancing is not proficient enough to perform onstage. My sister Jane is th
e one who has inherited my mother’s graceful talent.”

  Will spoke to Harry quietly. “I’d like to escort you to the ballet on Saturday.”

  “Thank you so much, Will,” Harry said softly. “In all fairness, and before I accept, I must tell you that Thomas Anson and I have made up our quarrel.”

  Will gave her a look that told her he understood how she felt about Thomas. “I’m glad that you are friends again, but I’d still like to take you to the theater.”

  “Then I accept your invitation wholeheartedly, Will.”

  When the Montagu family took their leave, Louisa, Harriet, and Jane escorted them downstairs to bid them good night.

  “You behaved delightfully. I was proud of you, Harry. Jane, whatever happened to the lovely material we brought from Ireland? It is high time you had some new dresses.”

  Harry noticed an envelope on the floor underneath the table where the post was placed each morning. She bent down to pick it up. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw it was addressed to her, and that it was stamped with the Anson monogram.

  She opened it quickly and scanned the letter. It’s not from Thomas; it’s from his mother.

  My Dear Lady Harriet:

  I hope you won’t think me presumptuous if I invite you to supper on Friday evening.

  My son will not be at home. It will be just the two of us. I hope you will accept. It will provide the opportunity for us to meet and become acquainted.

  Barbara Philips Anson,

  Countess of Lichfield

  Harry went to the drawing room, sat down at the desk, and penned her acceptance. The thought of being invited to St. James’s Square to meet Thomas’s mother filled her with curious anticipation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Harriet Hamilton to see the Countess of Lichfield.” Harry stepped into the reception hall of the St. James’s Square mansion. I hadn’t expected it to be so elegant.

  “This way, Lady Harriet; the countess is expecting you.” The maid took her cloak, and led the way upstairs. By the time Harry reached the top step, Barbara Anson was there to greet her. “I’m so glad you accepted my invitation, Lady Harriet.”

  Harry curtsied. “I am delighted to meet you, Lady Lichfield.”

  “Oh, please, no curtsies. Let us be informal.” She led the way to the drawing room.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “I’d love one.” Bugger and balls, perhaps that was some sort of test. Oh well, too late now. She watched the countess pour two glasses of sherry.

  “Thank you.” Harry took the glass and sat down facing her hostess. She wondered if Thomas had asked his mother to invite her.

  As if Barbara Anson could read her mind, she said, “Thomas is unaware that I asked you to dinner. He’s always absent on Friday evenings—that’s why I chose it.”

  Harry tried not to stare at the attractive woman across from her. She was as dark as her son, with an olive complexion and black curly hair, streaked with silver, drawn back into a large bun. Harry detected a lilting accent that she couldn’t quite place.

  “You have a rare beauty, Lady Harriet. ’Tis easy to see why my son is drawn to you.”

  Harry smiled with delight. “You are Welsh!” she blurted as she recognized the lilt.

  Barbara returned her smile. “Indeed I am. I was brought up in Pembrokeshire. If I tell the truth, and I invariably do, I much prefer Wales to England.”

  Harry raised her glass. “I have a great deal of respect for the truth, my lady.”

  “Good. I would like there to be truth between us, at all cost.”

  At all cost—whatever do you mean?

  Again, as if she had read Harriet’s mind, she said, “I shall be perfectly honest with you, and I ask no less of you in return.”

  Harry drained her glass to give her courage. “I pledge you the truth, my lady.”

  “London thrives on gossip. Have you heard the rumors about me?”

  Ohmigod, do you really want the truth? Harry said hesitantly, “Yes . . . I have.”

  “My father, Nathaniel Philips, had a sugar plantation in the West Indies. Because of my extremely dark coloring, it is rumored that I am half-caste. Gossips insist my father had a mistress in the islands who gave birth to me.”

  Harriet’s mouth went dry at the sheer bluntness of her words.

  “Here is the truth. I haven’t the faintest notion. My blood could be Celtic—Welsh—or it could very easily be West Indian.”

  Looking at you, it is impossible to tell. You could be either.

  “My son has told me that he asked you to marry him. You told him perhaps. I would like you to tell me the truth. Is your hesitation because of my blood?”

  Harry was shocked. “I swear on my life that it is not!”

  Barbara Anson closed her eyes. Her relief was evident, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Then do you hesitate because your family disapproves of you marrying my son?”

  Harry licked her lips as she searched for the truth. “My father likes Thomas, and has made it clear that the choice of a husband is mine.” After a moment she continued. “My mother hoped I would marry D’Arcy Lambton, Earl of Durham. I refused to become his wife because I didn’t love him, and discovered that he didn’t love me. Now my mother’s fondest wish is that I’ll marry William Montagu, Earl of Dalkeith. I am fond of Will, but I won’t become his wife because I don’t love him either.”

  Oh God, her next question will be, “Do you love Thomas?”

  Harry said quickly, “The reason I hesitate to marry Thomas is quite simple. I need proof that he loves me.”

  Barbara nodded. “Marriage without love is abhorrent. I know firsthand, my dear.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Barbara shook her head. “You need not be. My purgatory is about to end. I can literally smell the freedom of Wales beckoning.”

  “You won’t remain in England when you are widowed?”

  “I hate London, and though Shugborough is lovely, it holds too many unhappy memories for me. I shall return to Slebech Hall, Pembrokeshire. I have kept it secret from my husband that my father bequeathed it to me. It is held in trust, since the law says I cannot own it.”

  “That is a law that must be changed. I have joined the suffragists who campaign for women’s rights. Once I marry, I shall become a member of the Married Women’s Property Committee. Perhaps you would be willing to add your name to a petition?”

  “I would be proud to sign a petition. What you are doing is most commendable. It won’t just be an uphill battle, you know. It will be a bloody one. Men will wage a fierce war to keep women in their place.”

  Barbara looked up as a maid approached. “Dinner must be ready. The dining room is this way, Lady Harriet.”

  “What a lovely room.” Harry gazed at the oversized Welsh dresser that held a display of china. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful dinner service.”

  “It is a prized collection of Chinese porcelain. The treasure was acquired by a renowned ancestor, Admiral George Anson, who sailed around the world on his ship, the Centurion.”

  “I saw the figurehead of the Centurion in the library at Shugborough this summer!”

  Barbara was surprised. “You were at Shugborough this summer?”

  “We were on our way to Ireland and our family stayed overnight in Stafford. I couldn’t resist revisiting Shugborough Hall. I attended the auction sale when I was a child, and the place enchanted me.”

  “Thomas was there in August.”

  Harry smiled. “Yes, he caught me trespassing and gave me a tour of the house.”

  “My son has a deep and abiding love for Shugborough. He treasures it above all else. It is meet and right that it will soon be his.”

  The maid wheeled in a tureen and ladled the first course into Harry’s porcelain dish. Harry realized it was part of the prized Chinese collection. “You honor me.”

  “I have decided you are a lady of discerning taste, who can appreciate the
aesthetic beauty of such a rare treasure.”

  “I appreciate the food as well. These prawns are delicious. I can taste curry, but I cannot name the other flavors.”

  “They are West Indian spices—red chili, cumin, ginger. I made this dish myself.”

  Harry smiled. “My compliments to the chef. Thomas claimed that he could cook. Now I’m inclined to believe him.”

  Before the meal was over, Harry knew she liked the Countess of Lichfield. She was direct and truthful, and appreciated those traits in others. Now that I’ve met her, it is evident that Thomas takes after his mother.

  Though Barbara Anson had had an unhappy marriage, Harry could tell that she did not feel sorry for herself. One thing is certain: She has no intention of becoming an intrusive mother-in-law to her son’s wife.

  When the food was cleared away, they had one last drink together, and then Harry thanked the countess for her hospitality and bade her good-bye.

  Later, as she lay abed, reliving the evening, she thought about how Barbara Anson had invited her to find out if her hesitation to marry Thomas was because his mother might be half-caste. It horrified Harry to think the countess could harbor such a suspicion. She thought of Thomas. Lord God, I hope he doesn’t think that’s the reason I hesitate.

  Harry thumped her pillow. If Barbara Anson had asked me if I loved Thomas, I would have had to admit the truth and tell her that I love and adore him. Words that her uncle John had said, when she was contemplating marrying D’Arcy Lambton, floated in the air. “If you are in love, you must let nothing stop you, Harry.” She smiled as she drifted into sleep.

  Earlier that evening, Thomas had dined with Solange.

  He had known the young woman since she worked for his father at Ranton, the sporting estate where she helped lure the nobility to gamble away their fortunes.

  When Thomas learned that the sixteen-year-old Solange was his father’s mistress, he hated and detested her. Then his father was financially ruined, and ruthlessly abandoned the young girl. When Ranton was burned, Solange was left without even a roof over her head, and Thomas’s hatred turned to pity. Like him, she was a victim of the brutish, profligate Earl of Lichfield.